


Five Times Peter and Neal Took Care of Each Other

by sahiya



Category: White Collar
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 06:28:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what it says on the tin. So sweet it'll make your teeth ache.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Peter and Neal Took Care of Each Other

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Caffrey-Burke Day 2013, AKA the anniversary of the White Collar pilot. Thanks to Fuzzyboo for beta reading!

**I. Care package**

Neal had only been back in prison for a week when the care package arrived. He’d been moving through his days in a sort of numb haze, and the delivery of a package was the first thing that’d really made him pay attention since the plane had blown up, taking Neal’s future with it. Nothing else here in the monotonous, gray world of the prison had managed it. 

It was a large box, but fairly flat. Neal took it with him back to his cell and sat for a moment, running his hands over it, and then looked at the address label. He wasn’t sure if he was surprised or not to see Peter’s distinctive handwriting. Neal hadn’t heard from him at all, and now he thought, distantly, that that was sort of strange. But Peter had his own problems right now. 

It’d been searched, of course, but someone had made a decent effort at taping the box back together. Neal re-opened and it and found inside a package of cookies - sealed and store-bought, of course, but of excellent quality - a beautiful set of colored pencils, and a pad of thick paper. But the reason for the large box lay beneath those things: a bright blue fleece blanket. It was soft, so very soft, completely unlike the scratchy blankets on his prison mattress.

The note that fell into his lap when he pulled the blanket out was very short. 

_I know you told me once that the worst parts of prison were the boredom and the bad food, but it’s so cold right now. Stay warm, all right?_

_See you soon._

_Peter_

Neal’s immediate thought was, _I’m not cold_. But then, as if by magic, he realized that he _was_. It was January and between the concrete floors and the lack of insulation, the prison was freezing. He didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed until now. 

That night, Neal remade his bed so that the fleece blanket was on the inside, right up against him. He lay with one corner of it under his cheek and felt the pleasure-pain of returning sensation, as though part of himself had fallen asleep for lack of circulation. It hurt, but it was necessary. Feeling something was better than being too cold to feel anything, even if it did hurt. And knowing that Peter was out there, worrying about him, somehow made everything a bit more bearable. He hadn’t been abandoned here after all, at least not for very long.

Later, after Peter had gotten him out (again), Neal kept the blanket folded on the end of his bed. It clashed with everything else in his apartment, but Neal didn’t care. 

**II. Stake-out**

“You know,” Neal said, for probably the third or fourth time, “you could’ve gotten someone else to do the stake-out.”

Peter glared at him. “No need,” he said. “I’m fine.”

Neal snorted. Privately, even Peter had to agree that his protestations that he was “fine” were getting weaker with each passing hour. He’d already signed himself and Neal up for their shift in the van when he’d started to feel cold symptoms coming on. He’d thought he could just power through - nothing about a scratchy throat meant he couldn’t watch surveillance monitors, after all - but it was midnight now and all he could think about was getting home to his warm bed. 

“Did you at least take something?” Neal asked. “Or are we pretending that this cold isn’t happening at all?”

“Pot, meet kettle,” Peter replied, voice gravelly. 

Neal shrugged. “Maybe, but it means I know what I’m talking about. So. Did you take anything?”

Peter slumped into the chair. “No,” he admitted. “I meant to run out and get something during my dinner break, but then the weather was so bad, I decided I was better off staying inside.”

“And you didn’t ask me to do it because . . . ? Never mind, forget I asked,” Neal said, when Peter looked at him blankly. “Look, there’s a 24-Hour Duane Reade on the corner, I can run over there and get you something.”

“I’m fine,” Peter said. “It’s only another four hours -”

“Yes, Peter, it’s another _four hours_. Consider it a favor to me, since I’m the one listening to you hack up your lungs. Stay here, I’ll be right back, all right?”

“It’s really not -” Peter started, but Neal was already out the door. “Necessary,” he finished, mostly to himself. He sighed and gave up on pretending that he was well. He wasn’t fooling Neal and he certainly wasn’t fooling himself, so why bother?

Neal returned more quickly than Peter would’ve expected, a shopping bag of supplies in one hand and what looked like a cup of coffee in the other. “There was a diner next door to the drugstore,” he said, handing Peter the cup. “I had them give me some hot water, and I picked up some Theraflu.”

“Oh,” Peter said, blinking in surprise. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it. Here, take these,” Neal said, handing him some Tylenol Cold and Flu caplets with a bottle of water. “I think there’s a blanket in the emergency supplies.”

“I don’t need a blanket,” Peter protested, but Neal didn’t seem to be listening at all anymore, if he ever had been. Within a couple of minutes, Peter had taken his Tylenol and was settled in his chair with a dusty blanket out of the emergency supplies tucked over him, a cardboard cup of Theraflu in his hand. 

“Happy now?” Peter asked, when Neal finally settled himself into the chair beside him.

“Not as happy as I’d be if we were both at home in our own beds,” Neal replied. He gave Peter a side-long glance. “How’re you?”

“Better,” Peter admitted, slumping into his chair. He sipped at his Theraflu and added, only a little grudgingly, “Much better.”

**III. Pot roast**

Neal didn’t know how Peter got to the hospital so quickly once he’d called him. He must’ve used his lights, probably run an intersection or two. Neal honestly didn’t know why he’d hurried. There was nothing to hurry for now. Ellen had died before Neal had even managed to get to the hospital. Though he supposed Peter didn’t know that, since Neal had called him from the scene. 

“Neal,” Peter said, spotting him as he came in the door. He hurried over, out of breath and sweating slightly. Had he run from Manhattan? Neal wondered blankly. “Hey. Is there any news?”

Neal had to clear his throat. “Yeah. She, um, her heart stopped in the ambulance. They couldn’t - they tried, but they couldn’t, couldn’t get it going again.” Peter stared at him, as though he didn’t understand. “She died,” Neal said, in case it wasn’t clear. “She -” his voice cracked, right in half - “she died.”

“Oh God, Neal.” Peter reached out, gripped him by the shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

Neal swallowed. “I, uh. There’s nothing here for me to do. I’m not - not family. Not legally. The Marshals are taking care of everything.”

“Okay,” Peter said, and just like that, Neal watched as Peter went from “shocked” to “crisis-mode.” “Come on, let’s get you home.” Gently, Peter took him by the arm and steered him out of the ER. Neal would’ve normally objected to being led anywhere, but at the moment, he couldn’t muster up the motivation to care. Peter’s hand was warm on his arm through the fabric of his shirt, and Neal could feel him at his side. Strong. Alive. 

Neither of them spoke until they’d left the hospital parking lot. Then Neal asked, “Do we need to go back to the office?” 

Peter glanced at him, then looked back at the road. “No,” he said. “It’s Saturday, remember?”

“Oh. Right.” That was how he’d ended up going to see Ellen in the middle of the day.

That was it for conversation for the rest of the car ride. Neal stared out the window while Peter drove, and he only realized where they were when Peter slid into a parking space a few doors down from his house. “Come on,” Peter said, when Neal didn’t move. “I have a pot roast on.”

Pot roast. Neal wondered if he was crashing Peter and El’s date night, but he couldn’t really bring himself to ask. He supposed a better man would’ve insisted Peter take him home, let him and El have a rare evening to themselves. But June was out of town, and the idea of sitting alone in his apartment all evening was intolerable. 

Inside, Peter installed him on the sofa. Satchmo came over and put his head on Neal’s knee, and Neal rested his hand on his head, scratching gently behind his ears. Peter disappeared into the kitchen, probably to check on his pot roast, and came out a minute or so later with two beers in hand. He cracked them both open and handed one to Neal. 

“To Ellen,” Peter said quietly, holding his beer up. “I wish I’d known her better.”

“Yeah,” Neal said, the backs of his eyes stinging. “Me too.”

 **IV. Six weeks**

“So,” Neal said, “how are you really doing?”

It was just the two of them, out on the porch. It’d been early summer when Peter had been arrested; now it was late summer, and the evenings were warm. Diana and Jones were inside, helping El with the clean up from the celebration dinner. Peter had been forbidden from helping, so he’d wandered out here, just to be outside in the fresh air. Neal had followed him, settled himself in the other chair, and for a few minutes neither of them had said anything. 

Now Neal’s question just hung there between them. “I’m all right,” Peter said. 

Neal glanced at him. “Peter. I’m not Elizabeth. You don’t have to protect me. And remember, I’ve been there.”

 _I know,_ Peter couldn’t help but think. _I put you there._ He swallowed, took a sip of beer, as though that would help with the guilt. “I keep wanting to open windows,” he said. “It was so hot today, it didn’t make any sense, but I just wanted them open. And every choice feels so much bigger than it did before. I didn’t make any choices at all for six weeks.” 

Neal nodded. “I bet you’re looking forward to a shower in your own bathroom.”

“Did it already,” Peter said. “First thing when I got home.” He shook his head. “But I’m really looking forward to my own bed. I don’t think I got a decent night’s sleep the whole time I was inside. I never realized how noisy prisons were.” It had never been completely quiet, never. Peter had sort of adjusted, or at least eventually gotten tired enough that it’d mattered less, but he’d still jerked awake a lot.

Neal nodded again. “I tuned it out after a while,” he said, reflectively. “It became almost like white noise.”

Peter hesitated. “Neal,” he said, very quietly, “I -”

“Don’t,” Neal said, equally quiet. “I know what you’re about to say. But don’t. Don’t be sorry. It wasn’t the same for me, you know that. You were innocent. I wasn’t.”

“Four years,” Peter said, his voice breaking a little. “Four years, Neal. I was only there for six weeks and I thought I’d go crazy.”

“The first couple of months are actually the worst,” Neal said. “After that, you sort of adjust. Make friends of a sort, figure out how everything works. But the fact that you’re sitting here, trying to apologize to me,” he added, glancing over at Peter, “is how I know that you’re not okay.”

Peter looked away. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, picking at the label on his beer bottle. 

“Don’t worry,” Neal said. “I’m not going to make you talk about anything you don’t want to. I’m sure you just want to get back to business as usual.” Peter nodded, still not looking up. “But if you ever do want to talk, or if you ever just want to be ‘not okay’ with someone who gets it - you know where I am.”

He stood up then, squeezed Peter’s shoulder, and went back into the house. Peter looked out at the darkened back yard and kept on breathing. 

**V. Waiting for the cavalry**

_Neal. Neal. Wake up._

Neal blinked his eyes open. Peter’s face swam into focus overhead. “Ow,” he said. 

“I bet,” Peter said. “Barrow’s goon clocked you good.”

Neal grimaced and began carefully moving various limbs. Everything went okay, so eventually he tried picking his head up off the concrete floor and then, very slowly, sitting up. His stomach roiled and his head pounded, but he forced himself to breathe through it. “Okay,” he said after a minute. 

Peter was eyeing him skeptically. “Really?”

Neal grimaced. “Okay-ish.” 

“Well, the bad news is that we’re locked in here. But the good news,” Peter said, sitting down beside Neal and leaning back against the wall, “is that I think Barrow and his guys have rabbited. So really all we have to do is wait.”

“That’s good,” Neal said, “because I don’t think I could walk out of here.” He glanced over at Peter. “What about you? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Peter said. 

Something about the way he said it caught Neal’s attention. He looked - well, squinted - at Peter, and finally pinged to it. “What’s wrong with your arm?”

Peter grimaced. “It’s not my arm, it’s my shoulder.”

Neal frowned. “Dislocated?”

Peter shook his head. “Just badly strained, I think. And very swollen and sore.”

Now that Neal was looking for it, he could see how pale Peter was. There were pain lines around his mouth that weren’t usually there. “Here,” Neal said, shrugging out of his jacket. “I bet we can rig this into a sling.”

Peter, of course, knew exactly how to do it. Normally Neal would’ve given him a hard time about being a perpetual boy scout, but at the moment just staying upright was taking everything he had. Soon enough, though, they soon had Peter’s arm bound in close to his body. “Better?” Neal asked, letting himself slump back down onto the ground. 

“Much better, thanks.” Peter sighed. 

Neal wished he could say the same. His head was pounding, and it felt like it weighed about a million pounds. He listed toward Peter until his shoulder was touching Peter’s uninjured one. “Go ahead,” Peter said after a second, sounding almost amused, and Neal let his head fall to rest on Peter’s shoulder. “Don’t get too comfortable, though. I bet we don’t have long before Diana and Jones catch up with us.”

“Good,” Neal mumbled. “Not exactly a four star hotel.”

“Definitely not,” Peter agreed. “Zero thread count, no room service.”

“See if I come back here.”

Peter chuckled. Neal smiled and closed his eyes to wait for the cavalry to show up. 

_Fin._


End file.
